Thank God There's a Doctor in the House
by Kizzia
Summary: After three long years John finally gets some answers. And a lot more besides. A fill for a prompt on the Sherlockbbc LJ community, in which John is a complete BAMF and uses ALL his skills.


**Rating:** PG-13  
**Status:** WIP - Chapter 1 of 3.  
**Warnings, kinks and contents:** BAMF!John, Post Reichenbach reunion fic, Johnlock established relationship, John uses ALL his skills, Molly and Mrs Hudson remain calm, Greg, Mycroft and Sherlock do not!  
**Disclaimer:** Don't own, don't claim, not making any profit.  
**Author's Note:** This is a fill for a prompt that appeared on the Sherlockbbc LJ community way back in October last year. Said prompt can be found via my profile page.  
Again this is something I'm posting with the remaining chapters sketched out but not complete. I'm hoping the person who wrote the original prompt might let me know if there is anything she'd specifically like to see in the remaining chapters so that I can work it in when I write them up. I should think the next chapter might be up next month and the final one the month after (providing my muse and my confidence don't desert me between now and then)

Please note that this hasn't been beta'd by anyone other than me.

* * *

**Chapter 1 - A not so chance meeting**

'Why are you here, Mycroft?' John appeared calm but there was an edge to his voice that reminded Mycroft that this man had killed for Queen, country, and his younger brother, 'I distinctly remember telling you not to contact me.'

'And I agreed that I would refrain from doing so unless it was a matter of life or death. I have not broken that agreement. Your life is now in real and present danger and I am here to ensure that you are not harmed.'

John looked Mycroft, still standing on the doorstep, leaning on his umbrella. He looked tired. More so than the last time he'd seen him, although he'd have been the first to admit that his memories from the funeral and the days surrounding it weren't the clearest. He didn't want to let him in, didn't want the flood of memories he was sure to generate, regardless of why he was here. Especially not right now, barely two days after his annual pilgrimage to the grave. Whoever said that time heals all wounds clearly didn't know what they were talking about, since the pain didn't seem to have dulled an iota in the past three years.

'I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself,' was what he finally said, when he was certain his voice wouldn't betray him.

'As I am fully aware but this is not just about you. Mrs Hudson is also in danger.'

At that the fight went out of John and he stepped back, letting Mycroft enter the building and shutting the door behind him.

'So what exactly is going on?'

'I would rather explain to everyone all at once, John, so if you could just ask Mrs Hudson to accompany us we should be on our way at once. Detective Inspector Lestrade and Ms Hooper are being collected as we speak.'

'Our way where, Mycroft?'

'Somewhere safe, John. I cannot explain everything here, not without compromising the operation. I …' Mycroft paused before continuing and his sudden moment of hesitation did more to convince John to do as he asked then the words which followed, 'I know you have no reason to trust me but I would not have come if I could have avoided it.'

John gave a curt nod and then turned back up the stairs to 221B, 'I'll fetch her in a moment. I'm not leaving here without my gun.'

'I wouldn't expect anything less,' Mycroft murmured as he pulled out his phone to call his assistant. Today was not the day to leave anything to chance.

oOo

'I hope there's a really good explanation for this,' Greg said once Anthea had concluded her phone call. 'I didn't even realise Mycroft knew where we lived.'

'You'd do best to assume Mr Holmes knows everything,' she replied as the car moved through the London traffic, 'and accept that he doesn't act without reason.'

'Can you tell us why?' Molly asked as she shifted again in the leather seat, the sumptuous upholstery not doing anything to ease the ache in her lower back. 'Is it …'

'Please, Miss Hooper, Mr Holmes will explain everything when you arrive.'

'It's Ms Hooper now, thank you,' Molly responded, pointedly resting her left hand on her bump, 'I may not have changed my name but I am married. And I'd appreciate not being "handled" as well. I do know what's at stake.'

'Of course,' Anthea actually sounded sincere, 'My apologies.'

'Molly?' Greg was looking at her with a mixture of confusion and pride. 'What's going on?'

Molly looked at Anthea, inclining her head slightly and the other woman searched her eyes before giving a brief nod and asking the driver to pull over. Within seconds she was elegantly ensconced in the front, the partition was closed and the car was moving again, giving Greg and Molly complete privacy.

'Molly?' he asked again, resting his hand over her own, smiling as he felt their child kick in response.

Molly closed her eyes briefly, teeth worrying at her lower lip before she laced her fingers into Greg's, using her other hand to cup his cheek.

'You remember our first date.'

'Vividly,' Greg twisted his head a little so he could kiss her palm, 'two very mediocre cups of coffee in the Bart's coffee shop, neither of which actually got drunk because we couldn't stop talking.'

'And you remember the conversation.'

'Of course I do, I … oh!'

'Yes. I … I've wanted to tell you about this so many times because I can't see how you're going to forgive me when you find out what I've been keeping from you but I made a promise and …'

'Hush,' Greg gently pressed one finger over her lips, 'I said it then and I'll say it again now. I don't want you to break any promises and, providing you haven't committed murder or helped shield a criminal, then I don't care what it is you can't tell me.'

'I think you'll care about this.'

'As long as it isn't that Mycroft's your Uncle and is about to start interfering in our lives on a daily basis, I think I'll cope.' He slid one arm round Molly's shoulders, wrapped the other round the bump and cuddled her close as she gave a reluctant giggle. 'I love you, Molly Hooper, for better, for worse. I'm not going to run out on you for something you did before we got together.'

'Thank you,' Molly said softly, relaxing against him as the car began to slow down. 'I love you too.'

oOo

_I'm going to kill him_, John thought as he stalked to and fro in front of the unlit fire, _or at least give him a black eye and a bloody nose_. Mycroft had disappeared approximately five seconds after he'd ushered them into what he'd called the living room but actually looked like something out of big budget costume drama. In fact the whole place, which John thought was somewhere south-west of London from what he could remember of the route, looked like one of the last bastions of Victorian society; imposing, elegant and, John strongly suspected, incredibly secure. He also suspected it was the Holmes family home which wasn't helping his temper since he kept imagining a younger, but no less stark, Sherlock perched on one of the chairs or rifling through the well stocked shelves.

He'd been able to distract himself initially, greeting Greg and Molly and listening with half an ear as Mrs Hudson managed to get every single detail of Molly's pregnancy out of her within fifteen minutes, but that had been three hours ago and he just wanted to get the hell out of there, danger or no. It wouldn't have been so bad if there had been some windows but it was room right at the centre of the house and he was beginning to feel like the shelves were closing in on him. A light touch to his arm stopped him in his tracks.

'You'll wear a hole in the carpet if you keep this up and I suspect it's worth more than both our flats combined,' Molly said, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. 'Won't you come and sit down for a bit?'

John forced back the sharp retort that had leapt to the tip of his tongue – it wasn't Molly's fault Mycroft was behaving like a cross between George Smiley and M – took in the way she was rubbing her lower back with one hand and the slight tightening of her jaw muscles ever few seconds and instead said, 'Is my pacing bothering you?'

'No. I just … I'm sorry John.'

'Why are you apologising? You aren't responsible for any of this.'

'_Wrong_. Without Molly this wouldn't be happening at all.'

John could feel the colour draining out of his face as Molly looked past him towards the door, eyes flickering from relief to annoyance and then back to relief and a touch of guilt. At which point John lost focus, trying to force himself to turn round. That voice was so familiar, so wonderfully, blessedly familiar and yet it couldn't be … it wasn't possible that ...

'John?'

It was the same voice but now it was uncertain, slightly wobbly and _right behind him_. He turned and looked up into the eyes that had been haunting his dreams for the past three years and the breath left his lungs as if he'd been sucker-punched.

'How?' he gasped, unable to stop himself stepping forward, closing the distance as his hands reached for Sherlock, fingers brushing errant curls off his forehead and tracing the lines and angles of his face, lingering on the places he'd last seen smeared with blood. He felt, rather than saw, Sherlock reciprocate, his hands running up John's arms, over his shoulders and then coming to rest on his back, making tiny, jerky circles there. For a moment John's vision blurred until remembered he needed to breath and managed to drag some air into his lungs. Sherlock's eyes came back into focus, sharp and intent and _God, this was real, Sherlock is really here_. 'How?' he said again, a little louder this time, 'and more the point why? Why did you do it?'

'Could we sit down while he explains? Only it's quite a long story and I'm really feeling quite tired,' Molly spoke from beside them and for John it was as if a spell had broken. Suddenly he could hear Mrs Hudson's quiet sobs, Greg's murmurs of comfort and, as an awful lot of loose ends tied themselves up in the patchwork of his mind, a sick feeling of betrayal welled in his gut.

'Yes, of course,' he switched to doctor mode as he turned to her, grateful for a good reason to pull away from Sherlock. 'You'd probably be more comfy in one of those wing back chairs, better support for your back.' He scanned her properly, noting that she was rubbing the underside of her bump and that her eyes were slightly clouded with pain, 'unless you find lying down more helpful with your Braxton Hicks.'

'No, sitting is fine,' Molly winced, hand tightening on John's arm, 'I just don't think I'm ever going to get used to them.'

'Well you've only got another five weeks to go now, love,' Greg said from the sofa, where he was still comforting Mrs Hudson.

'Is that supposed to be a helpful observation?' Molly queried with a smile as she let John ease her into the chair. Greg just gave her a grin and one shouldered shrug in response.

John looked between them, trying to decide if he wanted to know whether the suspicion that had just sprung into his mind was correct.

'Greg didn't know,' Sherlock said, making John jump, 'he went almost as white as you did when I walked in.'

'And you're ok with this?' John turned on Greg, unable to tamp down on the hurt inside, 'You're perfectly happy that she didn't tell you anything? That she let you think he was dead!'

'She told me straight off that she'd made someone a promise, that there was one secret she had that wasn't hers to tell.' Greg stood, moving over to Molly and resting a hand on her shoulder. 'I told her it didn't matter to me and I stand by that, regardless of how blown away I am by what she was hiding. I wouldn't say I'm happy but I'm not upset, either.'

John looked away, shoulders hunching as he moved to the other side of the room, needing some space, some perspective on everything.

'No, dear, leave him for a moment,' Mrs Hudson's voice was trembling but there was a note of steel that left John in no doubt that Sherlock would obey without needing to turn round and confirm it. 'You can sit down here and start talking because I, for one, want to know what exactly has been going on.'

'Yes, Sherlock, I really think that would be best,' Mycroft spoke from next to the closed door, where he'd been watching proceedings with a politician's eye, 'since they are now in twice as much danger thanks for your penchant for dramatics.'

'Yes, thank you Mycroft,' Sherlock attempted to sneer but it was clear his heart wasn't in it. 'You know perfectly well that my confirming to them what _Colonel _Moran already knows has made no difference to how much danger they're in. He wanted them all dead the minute he realised I was alive, regardless of whether they were of the fact.'

John was back at his side in an instant, eyes flashing and jaw clenched as he dropped to his knees the better to search Sherlock's face.

'Say that again.'

'He wants you dead, John. You, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and Molly,' and then, as an afterthought, 'and me as well, after that, I should think.'

'Not that,' John waved his hand dismissively, 'Mycroft told me this was a life or death situation. I want you to repeat the name.'

'Colonel Moran,' Sherlock looked and sounded entirely confused, 'but who he is doesn't ma …'

'You mean Sebastian Moran, formerly of the Royal Irish, don't you? Sebastian Moran, who was one of, if not _the,_ best snipers in the British Army? The guy so good he was attached to our unit for a few months in Sangin and took out three of the Taliban top brass for us in two weeks when we'd failed for a month? The Sebastian Moran who turned my gun skills from good to excellent and who _I_ nicknamed Colonel on account of his practically obsessive love of the fried chicken we got at Bastion. _That_ Moran?'

'You _know_ him?' Sherlock's face paled, eyes almost comically wide.

'No, I just made all that up,' John snarled, nostrils flaring, 'of _course_ I fucking know him! He was with us for close on four months. I know what he smokes, what he drinks, what he likes for breakfast. I know that he ended up leaving the army under a cloud in 2006 and I know that it was down to what he was trying to get out of Afghanistan in his kit when he went on R&R. What's more I know that it wasn't the oversight he claimed …. Where the hell do you think I got this from?' He waved the Sig at Sherlock, 'You don't think that I brought this out of Afghanistan myself, do you? They brought me from Kabul to Sellyoak unconscious, Sherlock! Do you think they just tucked it under the blankets of my stretcher? Dear Lord, our internal security may be piss poor half the time but really, even you shouldn't underestimate the controls that much!'

'I …' Sherlock faltered, eyes darting round John's face as John drew in shaky breaths, face burning red with fury. His left hand was clenching spasmodically and right still holding the gun in front of Sherlock's face. Sherlock's face had gone paler than John had ever seen it and his mouth was quivering as if he was on the verge of speech but not quite able to force the words out of his lips.

And then the last few displaced threads wove themselves together in John's head and suddenly he _knew_. It was like a summer sunrise in his mind, glorious and almost blinding. Very briefly he wondered if this was how Sherlock felt all the time, making connections out of seemingly innocuous facts until certainty struck at the very heart of his being and brought all his nerve ending to sizzling life.

'It's been Moran this whole time, hasn't it? That's why you jumped – Moriarty had a sniper on me, with orders to take me out if you didn't and that sniper was him. Moriarty was the "crazy motherfucker" Moran told me had hired him for his military expertise, who "valued him more than the arseholes who sent him to die over and over again in sandy shit-holes" ever did. _Moran_ took Moriarty's place once he was dead and it's _Moran_ who you've been chasing! That's where you've been all this time; hiding in the shadows, pretending to be dead to keep us safe while you tried to out hunt one of the best hunters on the planet. You were playing against someone you couldn't understand, couldn't hope too given how different you are. Shit, Sherlock, this is someone who could wait in one place for days for a target and even then not take the shot if the conditions weren't right!'

'I …'

'You complete fucking idiot!' John slammed his hands against Sherlock's far too bony shoulders, grateful the gun stopped him getting a grip on the other man and just shaking him until he understood how much pain he'd put John through. 'You're supposed to be the genius of this partnership but you couldn't find way to get word to me? Did you not think that my experiences might actually be a help in this situation? Did you not think at all, Sherlock? You've been risking yourself all this time when I could have got him in the open with a simple text message and Mycroft's boys could have just ended him!'

Sherlock heaved in a breath, opened his mouth again but then shut it with a snap, breaking eye contact with John as his shoulders slumped and his chin dropped to his chest in an unmistakeable gesture of defeat.

John found himself staring up past Sherlock's head an into Mycroft's face, which was almost as shell-shocked as Sherlock's had been, and his rage found a new target.

'And you! Did you not check Moran's records to see where he'd been stationed and make the connection? Or was there no mention of our units working together?' Mycroft gave one, curt shake of his head. 'And did not occur to you that if Moriarty was capable of creating an entirely new person in your systems and hiding himself completely that he might have taken the opportunity to 'tidy' his second in command's records a little too?'

Mycroft was frozen for a moment but then, with a twitch of his shoulders, found his voice, answering John in the clipped tones of someone who knew just how much of cock-up they'd made and, what was worse, were required to admit it out loud.

'You are entirely correct. His records give no suggestion you two ever so much as had an opportunity to pass in the corridors of Bastion, Captain Watson, never mind that you were quite so personally acquainted. This is an oversight I will be following up _very_ soon. However, we are where we are and _he_ is,' he waved his hand at the door, 'somewhere out there and thus I bow to your superior knowledge and experience both of him and of such situations. What do you suggest our next move should be?'

John stood, tucking the Sig into the back of his waistband as he did so, 'Mycroft, can you get me plans of the house and grounds?'

'I'll fetch them now,' he said and was gone, the door swinging shut behind him with an audible click.

John turned back to Sherlock, who was staring down at the back of his hands, apparently transfixed by them. John opened his mouth, to say what he wasn't sure but the words turned to ash on his tongue when Sherlock turned his head to look up at him and every minute of the past three years were etched on his gaunt face. The anger that had been burning in John's veins was extinguished in an instant by the anguish and exhaustion he saw etched in every pore.

'We'll talk about this,' John said, gently, nudging Sherlock until he could sit next to him and slip an arm round his waist, 'we'll have to talk about this. I need you to tell me what you've seen and done these past three years to make you look this way and then you need to listen while I tell you what's it's been like for me. But,' he held his free hand up to forestall the protest he assumed Sherlock would make, despite Sherlock not having blinked while he was talking, 'we're not going to do it now. Because right now I need your help to end this once and for all; we need to make sure that all the pain, the hurt, the misery, has a purpose. That it's worth something.'

Sherlock's murmured yes was barely audible but it didn't matter, not when his whole body sagged into John's hold and he let his head fall into the crook of John's neck. It was such an uncharacteristic action for him to make in public he couldn't have signalled his agreement louder with a klaxon.

'Right then,' Greg said, shooting a concerned look at Sherlock before he briskly rubbed his hands together and squared his shoulders, 'now that's settled, you'd better tell us what you want us to do, John.'


End file.
